


you were the ocean, i was drawn into you

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, honestly i just, idek, what is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:32:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>where harry takes pictures and worries too much and louis plays guitar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you were the ocean, i was drawn into you

**Author's Note:**

> so this is for [ceren](http://cinnamonstyles.tumblr.com) because she motivated me and ily
> 
> there are too many mentions of louis' eyes and how cold it is and i'm sorry
> 
> the title's from 'let it go' by fossil collective

It's the first time Harry's seen Niall in months so of course he skips class (an exception, he tells himself) to go pick him up from the airport with a lukewarm thermos of green tea and a spot cleared in the backseat from lost papers and a pair of gloves. It's too cold for October and Niall's shivering as he opens the door and shuffles in, hyper-tired with wide eyes, trying to manoeuvere his suitcase through the too-small space and he ends up with it on his lap and a thermos tucked under his arm.

"You need a bigger car, mate," is his greeting and Harry just laughs and puts the subjected car in reverse.

"I’ll get to that."

It's like this: Harry's never tried to make friends, he just finds them and picks them up along the way. His mum tells him he was the same as a child, never taking but always waiting. It's just Harry and Niall and sometimes Liam and Zayn when they're not out which they usually are and Harry likes that, he likes knowing what to expect from people and how and when they act and he likes knowing that there’s a few people who know him too and when he’s around them he never has to hide.

And so it's never awkward between Harry and Niall and they talk about uni and Niall's new job and music. Niall says he should have brought his guitar but then counters himself by saying the car would never fit them and a suitcase and a guitar and _where the fuck did all this paper come from_ and he sips his tea and Harry hums along to Muse and it's cold outside.

"How's that photo thing going?" Niall asks in the middle of _Starlight_ , leaning his head on the top of Harry's seat. His breath smells like tea.

Harry breaks into a huge smile at the road in front of them because photography is his _thing_ , that's what he tells his mum and sister every time and they agree and hug him and always come to open days when his work’s on display. "Amazing. I have some pictures to show you, actually, I need to make the final cut before Friday."

Niall laughs and finishes the tea and asks, "What're they of this time?"

And Harry rolls his eyes because he knows what Niall's thinking. "They're not nudes, Niall."

And Niall gasps in mock-offence but then bursts out laughing for maybe the thirteenth time and Harry has to laugh with him because he hasn't seen Niall for months and it hasn't been the same without him.

\----------

Harry's flat isn't big enough for much more than Harry so Niall books a cheap hotel for a few nights but assures Harry that his flat won't go to waste while he's at school. Harry rolls his eyes at the word _school_ and sends the Irish boy off with another flask of tea because he could get a cold and he just got here.

"You worry too much, Haz," is Niall's parting comment but Harry just shrugs and locks himself in for the night and takes an almost-hot shower so that his curls drip down his forehead.

His camera's lying on his bed and he can't stop himself from taking a few more pictures of his assigned subject which isn't a naked person but a pile of paperclips. They were urged to use something small and metal so that they could experiment with zoom and flash and reflections and Harry thinks maybe the seventh picture he takes is his favourite and will go at the start of his portfolio but only if Niall likes it, and maybe he'll ask Zayn and Liam too because they've always asked him.

And Harry falls asleep with paperclips in his hand and his legs sticking out from under the sheets and his hair damp and his breathing slow and it's cold in the flat.

\----------

It's Tuesday when Harry wakes up and he dresses slowly, shaking wire from his hair and sipping tea and brushing the warm murky taste from his mouth afterwards. It's cold again and there are leaves everywhere and he crunches his way to class after making sure to leave a key under the doormat for Niall. His jacket's too thin for this weather and he shrugs his shoulders up against the wind, camera and three different lenses in his bag. It took him a good two years to save up for the camera and a lifetime to save up for enrollment and he tries his best to never waste a minute of it despite Niall's teasing on the other end of the phone and Zayn and Liam encouraging him to join them out once in a while because _you're in uni, mate, you’re fucking free, this doesn’t happen twice_.

It's a welcome whoosh of hot air that hits Harry in the face when he opens the door and also a wielded pile of folders tucked under an arm which seems to belong to the feather-haired boy in front of him, looking abashed.

"Oh, shit mate, sorry," the boy says, shifting his feet awkwardly. He's shorter than Harry and smells like suncream and fabric softener.

Harry shakes his hair out his eyes and glares at the folders in question, rubbing his forehead. "No, it's my fault, I didn't see you. Sorry."

The boy offers a smile and crinkles appear at the corner of each very blue eye. "Don't be," he says, very very quietly and Harry just shrugs and adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder because he probably misheard (and the boy probably said _dopey_ or a variation of).

They stand in hesitant silence for a moment before the boy clears his throat and adds, "I'm Louis, by the way, not just the guy who attacks people with folders."

And Harry beams because that’s something he’d appreciate from a friend (if Louis were his friend which he thinks he might become) and so he counters with, "I'm Harry and I don't _always_ walk into guys with folders."

And Louis laughs, loud and shameless. "Nice to meet you, Harry."

Harry chuckles with him and sticks his hands in his pockets and then remembers he doesn’t _know_ Louis yet and thinks that maybe he’d like to. "You're new to the course?"

Louis nods. "Started yesterday. I don't remember seeing you." His words makes it sound like he _would_ have remembered seeing Harry but Harry lets it pass him by because he’s sure he’s imagining it.

"I skipped, had to pick up a friend from the airport."

Louis nods again, slower this time, almost calculating, and Harry blushes at the intensity and he has to look away so he stares at the floor; Louis shifts his feet again and Harry notices he isn't wearing socks.

"Your feet are gonna get cold," he blurts out before he can stop himself.

Louis follows his gaze and smiles a little. "Don't worry about my feet, mate."

And Harry wonders whether Niall was right and if he _does_ worry too much.

\----------

Niall's somehow managed to squeeze in with Harry in the flat and they went through Harry's pictures of paperclips and yes, the seventh one was the best, and now he's sprawled over the couch eating popcorn, leaving Harry to lean against the wall. There's a beer wedged between his legs and the temperature in the flat is decent for once (probably due to Niall's body heat) and Harry feels slow and tired even though it's barely gone nine.

"Someone new in photography," he says slowly, each word feeling too big and too heavy for his mouth to hold.

Niall glances up from his bowl, a rare happening. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Louis."

Niall hums acknowledgement, returns to his popcorn and swallows another handful before speaking. "Is he nice?"

Harry doesn't know how to reply because of _course_ Louis' nice with his blue eyes and armful of folders. It's absurd how much he wants to tell Niall about Louis and he shakes it off as one beer too many. "Yeah. He is."

"Hmm." Niall finishes the bowl and stares at it dolefully.

"What?"

"Dunno, mate. Never really heard you speak like that about someone you just met."

Harry frowns, struggling to lean forward without tipping over his can. "Speak like what? I've barely said anything."

Niall shakes his head. "Your voice. Your voice is happy."

And Harry takes it as Niall being drunk because Niall is usually drunk and he insists on walking his friend through the leaves and the cold to his hotel room and he gives him his jacket so that he won't catch a cold (even though Harry's pretty sure he catches a cold himself on the walk back home in nothing but a shirt and jeans in this weather that should be reserved for Christmas).

\----------

Louis' there the next day with his blue eyes but less folders. He grins and waves at Harry when he spots him and Harry takes the closest seat he can to Louis without completely blanking Zayn and Liam.

Zayn leans over and taps Harry's desk with his pencil. "Who'ssat?"

Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes because of course Zayn wouldn't have noticed the boy sitting right in front of him for the past two days. "Louis," he whispers back, careful not to speak too loud so that he doesn't hear Harry talking about him.

"You know 'im?"

Harry cranes his neck forward to check under Louis' desk. Still no socks. "We've talked."

That's enough to satisfy Zayn and he shrugs indifferently, turning to talk to Liam.

There's a new assignment and the class has to work with someone to take _portraits with unusual lighting_. Harry instantly snaps his head up because there are these lights strung up in a park not far from his flat, bright blue ones that are meant for Christmas trees, and if he waited until it got dark and got someone to stand under them and he played with angles then -

"Harry?" Louis' voice is softer than yesterday but his hair's still feathery. He smells like coffee now but the clean sheets-smell is still there. "Can I..."

Harry meets Louis' eyes which are almost as blue as the lights, he thinks. "...work with you?"

Louis smiles shyly but with relief. "Yeah. I don't really know anyone else."

Harry waves a hand at where Zayn and Liam are dragging their desks together. "I've been abandoned."

Louis laughs, eyes all crinkly, and the confident Louis from yesterday is back and Harry isn't sure which Louis he likes more. "Great mates you have."

Harry finds himself meaning it when he says, "I don’t mind. I have someone better."

Louis smiles so wide at that and the crinkles deepen. "That’s me, right? I’m better?"

It’s a rhetorical question and Harry doesn't know how to shrug it off when he feels the need to repeat Louis' words. "Yeah. That’s you."

\----------

Harry finds it far too easy to slip into Louis’ eyes and Louis’ voice (and he would never admit to anyone that it almost scares him). It’s comforting when he discovers Louis’ self-proclaimed passion for guitar because Harry can almost pretend he’s with Niall even though he’s almost certain he wouldn’t rather be with Niall right now, turning the carpets in his flat greasy and littered with crumbs, than with Louis.

On Friday Harry discovers Louis’ place is airier than his, newer with white walls and more like a museum than Harry’s earthy-coloured rabbit warren. There’s sheet music and notebooks everywhere and two guitars, one battered and old-looking with a few broken strings and the other shiny and pristine and they somehow add to the spaciousness. It smells like Louis though, salt and caramel and freshly washed clothes.

“Yeah, um.” Shy Louis is back and he does his feet-shuffle among the littered scraps. “Sorry for the mess.”

Harry ducks his head because for some reason he can’t stop blushing and he doesn’t want Louis to see (which he does, a flush of pink hidden beneath a tangle of thick hair and hooded eyes). “No, no, it’s fine. Mine’s much worse.”

“Mmm.”

It feels strained and intimate and like an awkward first date and as soon as Harry has that thought he blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind. “Niall thinks I like you.”

The truth in it is embarrassing, Niall laughing this morning through a mouthful of toast when Harry tells him he’ll be late home and him patting Harry’s back and mumbling, ‘Don’t have to ask my permission to be happy.’ The truth behind it is worse because Harry thinks maybe he does like Louis more than he should and he doesn’t know what to say or do because here’s a boy he’s just met and doesn’t know after a lifetime of knowing.

Louis blinks slowly and the crinkles appear and his eyes are still blue. “Who’s Niall?”

And this isn’t the question Harry expected first and he’s a little surprised and a lot more relieved (but he doesn’t show it this time because he knows he’s shown enough). “My friend, he’s staying at mine.”

“The one you skipped for?”

“Yeah.” And Harry tries to find a trace of disgust or anger or amusement in Louis’ eyes but he sees nothing but openness and those fucking crinkles.

“Is he right? About you liking me?”

And Harry doesn’t know what to say because _yes_ because Niall _knows_ Harry and Harry knows Niall wouldn’t tell Harry anything he doesn’t mean and he finds himself wishing Liam or Zayn were here because they’d be whining for a beer or a lighter or some music and Harry wants nothing more than a distraction right now because he doesn’t know what to say.

“I have to like you, right? You’re better than my mates, apparently.”

The joke is weak and Louis’ smile flickers even though it stays in place and Harry wishes he didn’t feel like he’d just disappointed himself and Louis.

But Louis just points at Harry’s camera around his neck and grabs the newer guitar and sits down on his bed on top of the paper and strums a chord. “Preliminary research?”

Harry stumbles forward feeling too small for his body and sits down next to Louis and fiddles with the lens of the camera and thinks about all the things he should have said but instead he’s left with the smell of fabric softener and a few shots of Louis playing nothing in particular with his hair hitting the light from the window and his blue eyes closed.

\----------

Harry isn’t moping (but the weekend goes by too slowly and he finds himself pulling out his camera more than once, staring at the pictures of Louis for so long that he’s sure if he stared any longer Louis’ eyes would blink open and the guitar would hum out a mess of low thrumming chords and he’d smell fabric softener and coffee). Niall notices, is round all day that weekend, rolling his eyes and patting his shoulder at first but then his smile softens and the pats turn to rubs and he takes Harry’s phone to ring someone without asking but Harry lets him because it’s not like he has Louis’ number on there and Niall would never embarrass him like that anyway.

And it’s not that Harry _misses_ Louis because he finds it hard to believe you can miss someone and feel this sad about them when you’ve only just begun to speak and trip over each others’ words and stumble around blindly until you learn the texture and contours of their mind. Harry just feels like he’s _missed_ something, an opportunity or a chance or a moment and he doesn’t know what it is and he wants to shake it off but he doesn’t know how.

“Haz, mate,” Niall chirps, walking in from the kitchen with a mouthful of something and his eyes are gleaming. Harry tries to hide the camera under a pillow but Niall notices anyway and raises his eyebrows but doesn’t mention it.

“Yeah?”

“Get cleaned up, your mates are coming and we’re taking you somewhere fun.” Niall’s smile is simpering and he’s trying not to laugh as he tosses Harry’s phone onto his lap. “Liam? Zave?”

“Zayn,” Harry corrects and he just feels _tired_ and he doesn’t want to go anywhere with the smell of cigarettes and grease and beer and Niall’s chewing and Zayn’s throaty laugh and even Liam’s never-ending pool of patience. He wants to sleep (and maybe he wants to see Louis but he shakes that off as unimportant because it is).

“Yeah, Zayn. C’mon Haz they’ll be here soon and _look_ at you how’re you meant to have fun looking like that?” Niall’s practically bouncing and waving his arms around the tiny flat and hitting walls and ceilings and his words are all running together already and Harry thinks that if he didn’t worry so much then maybe he could be like Niall.

And because Harry _knows_ Niall he knows that Niall’s trying to distract him and that maybe it’ll work and so Harry washes his curls and brushes his teeth and wears the warmest things he can find and pulls on his too-thin jacket and lets Zayn and Niall drag him into Zayn’s car where a waiting Liam greets him with a press of the horn.

“Gonna have some fun,” Zayn snickers and Liam smacks his shoulder before reversing the car that is much bigger than Harry’s and Harry lets them take him wherever fun is even though it’s still cold outside.

It’s a house party and it’s warm and musky and smells a bit like sweat and a bit like wilting flowers, sickly-sweet. Harry starts to blend in before Niall grabs his arm and drags him in the opposite direction where he taps on someone’s shoulder and maybe shouts, “Where is he?” but it’s too loud to know for sure.

The boy shouts something back and Niall grins and takes Harry with him and then Louis is there and Niall’s laughing and Harry’s eyes flit to Louis’ eyes because they’re still blue, wreathed in smoke and adrenaline and alcohol.

“Gonna leave you to it,” Niall hisses in Harry’s ear and then he’s gone and Louis looks down at his plastic cup of beer and back up at Harry and he looks uncertain and maybe disbelieving.

“Well,” he says after a while and Harry laughs too loud and the crinkles appear and Louis does his foot shuffle and Harry feels light and brittle and too tall.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Harry whispers in the direction Niall went because he doesn’t know what else to say and he especially doesn’t know what else to say to Louis.

Louis’ watching him and says, slowly, “Great mates you have,” and it’s what he said on Wednesday and it’s _Louis_ standing in front of Harry and there are so many expressions on his face and he looks so unsure suddenly but he has blue eyes and Harry thinks that’s all that matters.

And maybe confident Harry comes first tonight because Harry shrugs and quips, “I have someone better.”

And Louis arches his eyebrows and says, “Yeah?” and Harry starts to feel dizzy and rushed and Louis’ thighs look thick and tight and his skin is tanned and gleaming and for a second he doesn’t know how to breathe around his tongue.

But when he remembers again it’s Louis’ name he’s saying and Louis takes him by the arm and shoves his cup at someone and there’s a room somewhere down some hall and Harry’s head is throbbing and he hasn’t even drunk anything and he thinks maybe Louis’ smell is making him drunk or maybe it’s the feeling of Louis’ lips mouthing at the base of his throat and whispering against his collar and pressing to his jaw and then, finally, there are lips at his own and they taste like beer and heat and skin.

\----------

It's a week later on Saturday and Niall went home early this morning with a thermos to keep his green tea in and a book of guitar tabs Harry bought him and the flat feels empty. When Harry gets back from the airport he spends the remaining morning scrubbing away Niall's presence and then most of the afternoon fussing over the state of the house even more which shouldn’t take too long considering the lack of space but it takes that long anyway. Louis' due at six for tea and to try out ideas for the assignment and Harry cooks the first pasta dish he sees in the first cookbook he pulls out because he's pretty sure he can't go wrong with pasta.

Louis hasn’t mentioned last Saturday all week and Harry’s brushed it off as Louis being drunk and assuming Harry was drunk and he doesn’t even know if Louis remembers. But Harry does and despite Liam and Zayn and Niall’s smirks when he stepped under a streetlamp and brightened the bruises on his neck, he won’t verbally tell anyone because maybe Louis didn’t want it to happen (and if that’s the case then Harry wants to keep the moment to himself because it was _Louis_ and maybe it was then that Harry learned his way through the path to Louis’ mind).

Harry knows he shouldn’t feel this nervous but he still does and maybe it’s to do with last Saturday (and if Harry knows then he’s the only one). But maybe it’s to do with being alone with Louis and his eyes and guitar in this tiny flat and it’s maybe also to do with not knowing which Louis will knock at the door and if he’ll have crinkles and if he’ll shuffle his feet and if he’ll still smell the same and it’s pathetic but Harry needs to know because he thinks he needs to know Louis.

The sauce must be cooked by now but every time Harry goes to check the onions are still raw and the mince is still pink and it’s so _hot_ in the kitchen with everything working at once and Harry’s curls are sticking to his skin and his cheeks are flushed and the whole flat’s burning up and Harry thinks if it isn’t six soon then everything will spark and smolder and Louis will open the door to a roomful of flames.

But it’s six _now_ and Louis’ here _now_ and Harry stands at the door gasping for air because everything is burning and burning and his eyes are watering and there’s sauce smeared down his apron but Louis smells like fabric softener and sugar and there are crinkles by his eyes and they are hesitant but they are there.

“Harry,” Louis says softly, swinging his guitar case and he shuffles his feet and says, “Breathe.”

And Harry breathes and maybe it’s to do with Louis’ eyes but the flat cools down and he can smell nothing but Louis and he can see nothing but Louis and he has never wanted to know anything more than he wants to know Louis.

“Do you normally have panic attacks when you answer doors?” Louis asks, and it’s confident Louis today as he strides into the flat, and he fits there, Harry thinks, small and ruffled and compact.

“Yeah,” Harry tries to joke but it comes out too breathy and so he retreats into the kitchen and lets Louis walk the inside of his flat and simultaneously the inside of his mind.

“A photographer and a chef?” he hears from his bedroom and Harry knows what he’s looking at, the prints on his walls, of paperclips and Niall laughing and mugs of tea and leaves and days like today, too cold and too bitter for the season, frostbitten memories plastered above his bed and Harry thinks he wants Louis there too (and he wonders if he’ll ever get a chance to put Louis there, if Louis will stay long enough to walk through his mind and come out the other side).

“Not a chef,” Harry mumbles and he heaps pasta into the only two (non-matching) plates he could find that aren’t in the dishwasher and don’t have Niall on them and he sets them on the table and pulls out a beer each and Louis clatters in still holding his guitar case and grins and the crinkles fan out and Harry doesn’t know what he’ll do for the rest of the night and how he’ll find a way to brush this off when Louis leaves.

\---------

It’s too cold outside again but Harry’s lost count of the days that shouldn’t leave him shivering and his jacket is still too thin but there is heat from where his body faces Louis’ and he wonders if he wants to brush this off and if he _can_.

Louis’ on a bench playing the newer guitar and it’s dark everywhere but here, under the blue lights wound tightly over and around the trees and it’s blue everywhere and Louis’ cheekbones are high and his hair is messy and his breath is everywhere, blue-tinted clouds puffing from his lips and Harry’s taking pictures because this is a new Louis and he doesn’t know how or why but his breath is stopping just short of his lungs and tangling in his throat.

Louis’ playing this time, not strumming and Harry knows he needs to say something and so he does. “Last Saturday.”

Louis stops playing and Harry was wrong, his eyes are bluer than the lights, brighter.

“We were drunk, I didn’t know what I was...”

And Harry thinks if he doesn’t know Louis now then he never will and he _needs_ to and it’s dark and it’s cold but the lights and his eyes are so, so blue and Louis shuffles his feet and Harry steps forward and Louis stands up and Harry thinks this must be getting to know, this is better than getting to know.

“I wasn’t drunk,” Harry says, slowly and carefully and he puts his hands on Louis’ shoulders and confident Harry is facing this unknown Louis and everything is heat even though it’s still cold outside, it’s always cold outside.

“Me neither,” Louis whispers and Harry doesn’t want to stop looking at Louis’ fucking blue eyes but he does for the time it takes for them to kiss and Louis’ lips are cold and his nose is even colder and Harry thinks he’ll never get enough of this (because maybe this will become something normal to them, something everyday, and if Harry wants that, if he wants that more than anything, then only he knows).

They pull apart and everything is dark and cold and bright and heat.

“Your eyes are really blue,” Harry says.

And Louis shuffles his feet and Harry notices he still isn’t wearing socks but maybe he should stop worrying so much because Louis says, “Yeah?” and everything is okay.

**Author's Note:**

> ok thank you all ilysm


End file.
